


We Don't Talk About It

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, not explicit but mentioned, the duffy/raylan is noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-12 17:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Working as the proprietor of a bar had many perks beyond at-cost alcohol. However, the single most pertinent one to Boyd Crowder at this moment was that when people drank, they talked, and barkeeps served as the Protestant's priest.This is a H/C fic, dealing with rape recovery. There is nothing graphic, but it may be triggery for some.





	1. Don't Ask

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, cherlocked, for reading this over for me and providing so much feedback!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this story.

Working as the proprietor of a bar had many perks beyond at-cost alcohol. However, the single most pertinent one to Boyd Crowder at this moment was that when people drank, they talked, and barkeeps served as the Protestant's priest.

Alcohol offered its own absolution, he supposed, and he leaned on the bar, mm-hmming at appropriate intervals, his face giving nothing away, his eyes blank.

This moron was talking like a big shot he wasn't; he was a nothin'-nobody gun thug with nasty tastes who wasn't allowed back in Audrey's, and he was saying he'd gone and caught himself a marshal, a federal marshal and he figured, fuck The Man by fuckin' the man, right?

Boyd laughed at the joke, letting his teeth show this poor fool was too stupid to see the warning, anyways.

He tipped his head to Johnny, who rolled his eyes and wheeled back to the storeroom to get things ready—- he'd heard enough of this moron's blathering about cowboy marshals to know Boyd would do something stupid.

Boyd didn't consider dragging a drunk motherfucker down into his basement stupid. Not a whit.

As he'd suspected, the moron actually was low-level. It wasn't _him_ who had caught a marshal, he was just in charge of watching him on dayshift, for Mr. Duffy.

Well, well, well. Johnny looked calculating, but Boyd....

It didn't matter what deals he wanted to make, or his relative position of weakness—you don't touch a man's...

Fuck.

He held himself above the tub-sink, hands clean as they could be with ink under his skin, head hung low and his breathing aching as he controlled it. "Let's go get Raylan, Johnny."

"Shouldn't we call the Marshals?"

"Sure. And tell them... what? We tortured a man into tellin' us where Raylan was?"

"Anonymous tip? They've gotta be looking for him."

"You think those people up there *actually* care about Raylan? They send him down against *us*," Boyd's fist hit his chest, above the bullet scar, and he meant 'me', "His own goddamn people. They don't give a shit if he lives or dies."

Boyd took very little pleasure in killing the four Dixie Mafia men on scene. He flinched internally as he finished off Wynn Duffy, his sins now having been atoned for sufficiently, a clear message written in blood.

Hell was gonna rain down in Harlan, and both he and Johnny knew it.

But that didn't matter, as he let his cousin deal with the cleanup, as he knelt beside Raylan, picking up his head and settling it on his thighs, looking down at him and shaking his head, his face a mask of wild grief and rage.

Johnny hadn't fought him when he'd said to kill them all. He'd heard Raylan screaming, too. He'd heard him scream no. And please. And stop. His voice had sounded bloody through the door as they’d kicked it in.

And, for all that they didn't like each other and Raylan was a lawman, they'd been boys together.

Raylan's eyes were closed, his face dirty and bloody and streaked, the screaming mercifully stopped as he’d been left alone while Johnny, Boyd, and his boys took care of business. Boyd pulled off his jacket, wishing he favored Bo. His father's shoulders would be a help just now. He cast about for the rest of Raylan's clothes -- they had been cut off and thrown aside, but there was a blanket on the bed in the corner of the room. He got up, easing out from under his friend and went to it, bringing it back and wrapping him in it gently.

"Jimmy's gonna drive you home," Johnny said from the doorway, "I've got this, cousin."

"You do," Boyd said, bending and using all his wiry strength and stubbornness and bottomless rage to lift his boy off that filthy floor, "See you 'round, Johnny. Manage while I'm out."

A man had to have priorities. A man's... dammit... came first.

He got him out to the car, and held him close as they drove up to Ava's. "Go pick up Dr. White," he commanded as Jimmy helped him lay Raylan on the bed in the spare room- he'd gone fully limp in the car, no longer using his closed eyes to hide from Boyd, but truly unconscious or asleep.

Boyd very much doubted he was sleeping.

"Is he gonna...." Jimmy asked, voice trailing off as Boyd whirled on him, snarling the command again.

The boy sent to fetch the doctor, Boyd got a washcloth and a bowl of water and set about washing Raylan's face clean, and his hands, uncovering his arms—- exposing bruised needle wounds inside his elbows, his wrists torn to bloody hell—- and recovering them as he cleaned.

Raylan's eyes opened, slowly, and Boyd tensed, ready to jump clear if he didn't recognize him. He wouldn't hold him down. His eyes focused, pupils dilated he squinted up at Boyd, confused.

"I... wh'happened, Boyd?"

"You got yourself into a little scrape," Boyd said slowly.

"I *hurt*," Raylan groaned, covering his face with his hand, his other hand pawing for Boyd's. "I _hurt_... Boyd, how'd I piss him off this bad? He don't... do you think he knows?"

…That was an odd question. "I reckon by being yourself?"

"True, that, seems enough for to do it, these days... fuckin' Arlo..."

Boyd blinked, "Raylan?"

"Mm? ...Boyd, what happened? I don't..."

"I don't know," Boyd said slowly, and Raylan's eyes focused on his face- or tried to.

"Boyd? You... mad or somethin'? I feel like... was we fightin'?"

"Could say so," Boyd said, "Some might see it that way. I don't wanna fight you though."

"It's my nature," Raylan muttered, "I'm as much as asshole as Arlo, sometimes, God! You should just... pop me in the mouth when I get nasty, Boyd."

He remembered this conversation. It was two days before the cave in, and Arlo _had_ beaten his boy, still stronger and meaner. He and Boyd _had_ fought, about leaving and about... well. They’d fought.

"No, Raylan, you'll just have to learn to rein that in yourself," Boyd said, "Doctor White's gonna be here in just a little while, boy. You better sleep."

"It's that bad?" Raylan's eyes were worried and he pressed a kiss to Boyd's knuckles, and Boyd shivered.

"Yeah, baby. It is." 

Raylan shivered. "Hurts, Boyd, and I... don't..." he muttered, eyelids dropping closed, tension seeping back out of him. Boyd's jaw clenched tight, and he went back to pulling back the blanket in bits and cleaning him up.

He couldn't bear to go below his waist, and called himself a coward for it, but there were things a man couldn't bear to see been done to his...

Dammit. He stuffed his knuckle into his mouth and bit down to keep himself quiet, throttling the rage and helplessness in his chest and pain behind his eyes.

Dr. White came, and Boyd stood back to let him work. Raylan woke up the instant he touched him, crying out for Boyd.

Boyd took his hands, and Raylan clung to him, pressing his face into Boyd's hands as if to hide as Dr. White worked quickly and efficiently.

Raylan cried, and Boyd did, too, but Dr. White had seen it all, and worse, and carried it in his bag of secrets he'd never tell. "He'll recover," he said, "Just keep clean, take it easy- and for god's sake, Raylan Givens, rest a few days!"

"Gotta get back to work, Doc, you know that..."

"They can spare you a week, son," he said softly.

"Doc," Boyd said slowly, "He's out of his head."

"I am not!"

"What do you mean?" The doctor frowned, looking back at his patient, concerned.

"He's talking like... before he left."

"Drugs, he's still pretty high. If not... take him up to Lexington."

"Okay, Doc," Boyd breathed out in relief, "What do I owe you?"

Raylan looked up at them wide-eyed, pupils still blown-black, only the thinnest sliver of hazel separating the dark from the light.

"For this?" He shook his head, "Nothing. I couldn't." He turned to go, and then stopped, "Just promise me you'll take care of him."

"I'll try."  
"I don't do drugs, Boyd," Raylan spat, "Any more than you do."

"I know."

"Hate that shit."

"I know."

"It's _shit_," Raylan scowled at the ceiling, "It's ourt daddies' shit. We aren't... we won't be like 'em. You an' I..." he tried to sit up and turn to Boyd, grip him and hold on like they used to in the dark, but the pain stopped him and he fell back with a broken little sound, bitten back and strangled.

Boyd stroked his hair and pretended he didn't see the tears going down the side of his face, "I love you, Raylan Givens," he whispered, "Go to sleep."

"We'll get out, Boyd," Raylan's voice was low, rough and broken, "We *will*. You'n me."

"Please, Raylan, you're... you're hurt. You need to rest."

"It does... and I will... but get me up in time, won't you?"

"I will."

"Okay, Boyd. Okay." Raylan fell asleep, clinging to him.

Boyd waited for him to be fully asleep, and leaned against the bed, head pounding as he clenched his jaw. This was too cruel .  
*  
Raylan came awake with a moan- he felt like he'd been through a meat grinder, the worst beating of his life, and a damn hangover.

God, he *hurt*... the light was so bright, and he struggled to sit up, get to the window and close his blinds- his hand was being held, and he looked down at the floor beside the bed. Boyd? And... not his bed. And he felt so slow, and so tired...

Memory slammed into him as he looked at his wrist, saw the raw skin and remembered pulling on his wrists, struggling to get away... .

"Oh, shit," he whispered, his body trembling as he understood the pain he couldn't process earlier, "No."

Boyd blinked awake at Raylan's voice, his tone angry and frightened, tired. "Raylan," he said, "Good morning, my friend."

"Where the hell am I?" Raylan exploded, wrenching his hand away, pulling back as far as he could- with Boyd between him and the door, there wasn't anywhere to go, and that terrified him. "Boyd, Boyd, please tell me you didn't... please!"

He couldn't remember everything, he'd passed out a few times, or been choked to blackness, and terror welled up in him. Had Boyd agreed to this? Had Boyd told them?

Had he helped? He could take anything but that.  
Raylan's voice cracked, betrayal and fear bleeding out of it as he begged Boyd, holding a hand between them, supplicating, wild eyes on Boyd’s face, begging Boyd to tell him that Boyd hadn't...

Boyd stood, slow and stiff, suddenly unable to breathe past the grief, "I would never... Raylan, I love you. I love you, an' you think to ask me if'n I raped you? That what you're askin'? Or do you think I had anythin' to do with it? Me? Raylan, you know me. You know I-" Tears choked him and he put his face in his hands, hiding behind skinhead tats, "I guess you don't." He said, stepping back and wiping off his face, looking down at Raylan's pale face, "I guess maybe you don't, so I... I have to tell you. No. I didn't, Raylan, and I wouldn't. I never, ever would."

Raylan had flinched at his explosion , and slowly settled back as he'd gone on, and he nodded, "I do, I do, Boyd, I just... I don' know where I am, an' I don't remember all of..."

"I'm sorry, Raylan, I came as soon as I heard."

Boyd looked at his friend, and swallowed hard. "I came," he said it again, slowly, "As soon as I could."

Raylan frowned suddenly, "...Boyd, where am I?"

"Ava's spare room."

"No offense, but shouldn't we be at a hospital?"

"And have the Marshals know?"

"They're gonna," Raylan said, paling at that thought, feeling his stomach knot itself up, "I mean... Boyd, what have you done?"

"I came," Boyd repeated himself, settling on the edge of the bed, taking Raylan's hands in his, " **As soon** as I could."

Raylan choked on that, wanting to tell Boyd he should have called the cops, neither of them should be here, and yet he was so damn grateful to be in a quiet house, with his oldest friend, a shotgun leaned companionably in the corner.

Raylan nodded, "Boyd," he said, "You got any clothes I can fit? Blanket's awful stuffy..." and he just wanted some goddamn clothes on, maybe he'd stop feeling vulnerable, then, "And... what day is it?"

"Monday, the tenth."

"Shit. I don't remember anything past Thursday evening..."

"No Marshals have been down to Harlan," Boyd said, "So I don't think they know you're gone." He couldn't help the sneer in his voice. *He* would have known by the end of the day on Friday. He got up, opening the door and bringing in a little pile of Johnny's clothes, all fresh-laundered. He turned his back to give Raylan privacy.

"Art is out of town," Raylan defended, realizing that no, they *didn't* have to know... he slowly pulled himself upright, getting dressed with clumsy fingers. He was a wreck, he could see that at a glance, but it was mostly bruising, thankfully, they'd been intent on making him hurt, shaming him, not killing him. "Boyd?"

"Mm?"

"...will you... can you take me up to Lexington?"

"Yes," Boyd replied, feeling something dark settle in his chest, "But I want you to know, you're wasting your life with those Marshals."

"You're wasting yours in Harlan," Raylan returned sadly.

Boyd sighed a little., "Yeah," he said, "I'll take you. You bound and determined to go?"

"Ain't no reason to stay, Boyd," Raylan said.

"Is, if you want to," Boyd said, "Or... if you wanted to talk about it or anything."

"Since the hell when do we talk about shit, Boyd?"

"We tried, a time or two, as I recall."

"Generally wound up not-talkin'," Raylan smiled at him sadly, "I've never cared for it, Boyd. And... what'm I gonna say? It happened. I'm alive.”

“I can understand where you’re comin’ from.”

“ I owe you—- again."

"You *do not* owe me nothin'," Boyd growled. Raylan didn’t answer that.

"You ever talk to anybody?" Raylan asked, following him down the stairs, slowly, carefully, one step at a time.

"What would I talk about, Raylan?"

"Oh, you know," Raylan said, coming off the porch and trying to keep his breathing even, "Daddy was a mean drug dealer, you went to war for years, you went to prison and I'm sure that didn't go any too well, and you been shot and..."

"No. And you can stop, now. I don't want to, and what's more, I don't need to."

"Then why would I?"

"You ain't me, Raylan."  
Raylan got into the cab of the truck, curling up on the bench seat. He felt like utter shit. "Where's Duffy'n'em?" He asked after a few minutes.

"Wasn't anybody there when we found you," Boyd told him, and Raylan laughed, softly.

"Hope you buried 'me deep, Boyd, I don't want this to be what hangs you."

"Son," Boyd said with a smile, "I have no idea at all what you're on about. But I am grateful for the sentiment."

They drove on in silence. Raylan fell asleep against the door, lulled by the radio and Boyd's breathing, and Boyd's hand resting lightly on his knee.

When he woke up, they were pulling into his motel, and he got out, slowly, just in time to see Tim coming out of his motel room, looking relieved- and then registering Raylan's condition and Boyd's presence and skipping straight to pissed as hell.

Boyd sighed, "Call off y'dog, won't you?"

"Hey, Tim," Raylan greeted, getting down out of his cab, "Picked a fight in Harlan. Boyd's bringing me back. It's all good."

Tim's eyes flickered to him from Boyd, "For four days?" He asked, disgusted, "Fuck you, Raylan, we were *worried*!" He stepped closer to them and Boyd moved to intercept.

Shit. Tim _did_ look like a dog just now, teeth bared in a clear snarl and eyes flashing. "Tim," Raylan said, calling his attention from Boyd's throat, "I know y'all was worried, I just... I'm okay."

Tim's jaw clenched tight. "Your hat's in your room," he said tersely, "If you were lookin' for it."

Shit.

"Tim..."

"I'm going to go do my job. Let us know when you decide you'd like to do that, too, and not run down to Harlan and dick around with Crowder."

Raylan flinched, ducking his head an instant, and then bringing it back up to look at Tim sideways, biting the inside of his cheek. 

Tim was watching closely, and Raylan's expression brought Boyd even farther forward, into Tim's space. Tim looked at Boyd, "Back it up, there, Crowder."

"How 'bout you?" Boyd drawled, settling his weight better on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge.

Tim laughed, "You're **cute** , you fuckin' grunt. Back. It. Up."

"Tim," Raylan came around the front of the truck, "Stop. Come on, he's just... Boyd!"

Boyd looked at him, and Tim, and took a deeply grudging step back. Tim looked at Raylan, eyes flicking over him once, twice, stuttering and stumbling over him and then his eyes fixed on Raylan's face, "Give me one goddamn reason," Tim said softly, "Not to kill him by dragging him behind my fucking truck."

Raylan's breath whistled past his teeth and he almost went to his knees. What, was it written on his goddamn face? "It wasn't him," Raylan managed, his face hot and flushed, "Fuck, Tim..." his voice cracked on that, a little.

Tim didn't try to touch him, but he moved closer, his shoulder close enough to grip if he needed support, chin tucked as he looked at him. Boyd growled, "It surely was not."

"Was I talking to you? I wasn't, to clarify," Tim said, "Get gone, before I change my mind and put a bullet between your goddamn eyes."

"Raylan?" Boyd deferred, and Raylan looked at him, helplessly. "Offer's still open," he said, softly.

Raylan shook his head. "Thank you, Boyd. I'm okay. I do think we should probably talk..."

"Thought you said you weren't one for that."

"Mostly not," Raylan admitted, "And maybe we won't. But I'm okay."

Boyd nodded, climbing into his truck and pulling out.

Raylan looked at Tim. "Had no plans to tell anybody," he said.

"Go on inside," Tim said, "Take a shower. Get dressed. I know a clinic that gives STD testin' and treatments for cash. Don't even need ID."  
Raylan blinked at him, and Tim stared back, "What?"

"You're just gonna..."

"I think you've probably suffered enough, and if you don't want us to know, then okay. We won't know." Tim said, "Anyhow, I doubt the assholes who... did that to you are still alive. So, you, me, Boyd makes three. Crowder won't talk. I won't tell Art, not because it's my ass, too, but... I get it. Go shower. Let's make sure you're safe. I'll cover with Rachel. She'll cover with Art."

"Thank you."

"Shower. Clothes. Clinic. Move it."

*

An hour later, Raylan was sitting across the table from Tim, arm stinging from the first shot and blood draw, mouth full of good fried chicken, and watching as the resident sniper destroyed a bucket of chicken methodically.

"It's dead. It won't run away," Raylan said, "And someday, that'll bite you in the ass, you'll end up like Art."

"A chief deputy with a wife and kids, ready to retire?" Tim asked, licking his fingers and fishing out another drumstick, taking a huge bite out of it, "Imma need another bucket."

"Overweight with high cholesterol?"

"Did you miss the rest?"

"Do you *want* that?" Raylan tilted his head, trying to see Tim as old, or married, or a chief deputy... he had no trouble picturing him with children, but the rest... he shook his head. "Thanks."

"No problem," Tim said, "Don't mention it. After today, I won't say anything."

"This where you tell me I need to talk to somebody?" Raylan glowered.

"What? No. No. If you want to, I'll listen. I'll keep the sarcasm to a minimum, even. But you don't have to talk about it. Ever."

"You said you get it?" Raylan asked, and Tim rattled the ice in his cup, taking a long drink. Raylan waited.

"I do. And I don't want to talk about it," he smiled, crookedly, "It doesn't help me, any. My buddy swears by it. Helped him a lot, talking did. Me, no. Shooting things. Going on. Kicking ass. And making sure *nobody* can lay a hand on me again without losin' fingers. That's... that's my therapy."

"Okay," Raylan said, slowly, thinking about it, wishing he could manage to eat more than half a piece of chicken.

"You'll be okay," Tim said quietly, "Someday you'll go a whole day and never flinch or think about it once. Okay? It gets better."

Raylan nodded tightly.

"Let's get you... did they take you outta your motel?" Raylan nodded again, bitter memory of Duffy already in the room, Mike coming up behind from the distant side.

"You gonna wanna move?"

Raylan couldn't imagine sleeping there and feeling safe. He swallowed a bite of chicken to fight the nausea.

"Okay," Tim said, "My spare room it is."

"I can't do that."

"Bullshit, yeah you can. Just think of it as something happened in that sleazy motel and you're staying out until the cleansers aren't gonna give you cancer by walking in."

Raylan snorted, "Classy."

"...will a cat bother you? I have a cat. She really likes the spare bedroom."

"Cats are fine."

"Then let's go get your shit and you can come with me. I'll help you move to a new podunk dive next weekend."

"I really just wanna go back to Miami.”

"If you keep your head down and leave Boyd Crowder alone, you'll be home by next Christmas," Tim told him firmly.

"Like that'll happen."

"Ask him," Tim said, shrugging, "If he can possibly do that for you."

"...what?"

"The man gives a shit about you. You don't... take care of somebody like *that*, if you don't. He cares that much? Ask him for something. Directly. My bet is, he'll do it, or at least," Tim started in on his last piece of chicken, "He'll try. This is Crowder we're talking about."

"Worth a shot," Raylan muttered, remembering Boyd's frantic defense, his 'I love you' ringing like a bell.

"Can I recommend you take the shot more like me than yer usual quick draw and blast until you hit a heart?"

"Watch it, there, sparky," Raylan muttered, but he was grinning.

Raylan set his shit in Tim's spare room, looking around. He didn't think it was possible to be much more secure. Tim's door had several locks, a brace, and his windows were double-panes, even on the second story. He sighed, and stretched out on the bed.

He was safe...

Except his heart was fucking hammering.

He tossed and turned, finally giving up and going down to the kitchen for some water, and maybe some bourbon.

Tim was up, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, feet under the coffee table, playing some game on his Xbox. There was a half-gone bottle of beer in front of him, beside an empty glass of bourbon. The bottle was still out. Glancing up at Raylan, he smiled a little, waving a hand towards the couch. He had his headphones on, so he reached to slide them off and down around his neck, "Hey. Help yourself to a drink. I'm about to kill this dungeon lord."

Raylan got another glass and sat down, pouring himself a generous shot, settling on the couch.

Tim's controller rattled, and Raylan snorted softly as he watched him play, "Did you just *miss*?"

"It's a sword. It don't count."

"Suuure," Raylan was beyond glad Tim's face hadn't so much as twitched to see all his bruises. He pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and settled to watch Tim play.

He fell asleep after an hour or so, waking to a buzzing sound. Tim cursed by his feet and he realized Tim had passed out on the floor in front of the couch, his character standing motionless on the screen.

Tim got up, running into the bedroom to hit his alarm. "Second bathroom's upstairs," Tim said, "If you want to get ready for work."

Raylan wasn't sure how he felt about work, but then he thought of staying home alone, and that sounded like a trip to a bar with no cash, so...

He got up and went upstairs to take a shower, pawing through his clothes to find something that went okay together. By the time he got down from his shower, there was coffee and Tim was throwing together breakfast sandwiches. Raylan raised an eyebrow, "You really don't have to..."

"I make them for me, anyways," Tim said, "What's one more egg and another english muffin? It's not a big deal... well," he hesitated, "It will be, if you ever tell anyone. Then, I'll have to kill you, to save my man-card. You understand."

"I do," Raylan said, amused despite himself.

Tim slid out the door not three minutes later, and Raylan finished his coffee, did the dishes, and left, arriving only three minutes before eight, but hey, he wasn't late.

Rachel was scowling at Tim, who looked chagrined, and Art looked... normal.

Well, then.

He reckoned he owed Tim two, at this rate.

"How was your long weekend?" Rachel asked, her voice annoyed, "Tim here needs to check his messages more often."

"Sorry," Tim muttered, shooting Raylan a sheepish glance he believed, damn that lying little sniper sack of shit! "I'll pay more attention."

"We got worried," Rachel admitted, "Glad you're all right, though."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Weekend was fine. Spent it down in Harlan, working on the house."

"Fun," Rachel said, in that way that meant 'no fun'. "Art let me do the assignments, so you're with Tim all week. Maybe he'll learn to keep a better eye out, hmm?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tim muttered rebelliously.

Raylan went down to Harlan on Saturday, went to Boyd's bar, bought a drink, and waited.

Boyd came in not a half-hour later, smiling at him and sitting on a stool, tucking his legs up under himself like a spider, "I h'ain't," Raylan flinched at the accent, and Boyd grinned, "Done nothin' of late to warrant a visit, and on a weekend?"

"I came," Raylan said slowly, "To see if you would like to get a drink with me, up towards Lexington."

Boyd's eyebrows climbed, "A drink."

"A friendly drink," Raylan said, jaw clenched and voice none-too-friendly, but Boyd's eyes were worried.

"Lead the way."

Raylan got them to a little quiet bar that served good burgers, and ordered himself some food. He was hungry, and hoped he would stay hungry when the food came. "Raylan," Boyd said, "How you doin'?"

Probably not real well, he thought, and shrugged his shoulder. "Wanted to thank you."

"I don't want it," Boyd said tightly.

"And ask you for something."

"...you want to ask me for something?"

"I do," Raylan said, looking down at the tabletop.

"I'm listening," Boyd said, accepting his beer with a nod.

Raylan tipped back his bourbon and sighed at the taste. He smiled crookedly at Boyd, "I need to get out of Kentucky," he said, "And once again the only thing keepin' me here... is you."

Boyd sat back in the booth, his face open and eyes stricken. "Raylan, I don't..."

"Please," Raylan said, "If you stop makin' me come down here every other day, I can maybe work my way out of the shit I've dug, and go back to Miami. I didn't think this was a good idea, by the way, but Tim seemed to think you'd do something if I asked nicely, so here I am. Asking. Nicely as I know how."

Boyd looked at him, "I would do just about anything you asked me to," he said, slowly, "And I don't want to see you go again, Raylan, but... well, I can't stay either. Ava and I were gonna leave sometime next week."

"What do you mean?" Raylan frowned, leaning forward, unable to think of a Harlan without Boyd- and where the hell would he even go? He wouldn't fit anywhere else. He barely fit here.

"I've recently angered some very powerful players," Boyd said, rolling his beer bottle and taking a sip.

...this was because of him. The weight of it hit like a coal cart to his knees. "Boyd, I'm sorry."

Boyd shot him a dark look, "If I wouldn't accept your thanks, you think I'll accept your goddamn apology?"

"I suppose not," Raylan muttered.

"You suppose fucking correctly," Boyd growled at him, "And I would do it again. But yes, Raylan. I can give you that. I won't be bothering you to come down. Although," he said slowly, "This, ri' here, is mighty nice."

"Haven't done it in quite some time."

"We are a pair of fools. I may bother you like this, still, Raylan, if I could?"

"Boyd," Raylan said, "If you think there's anything I would like more than for you to *actually* make it out of Harlan..."

Boyd grinned crookedly around the lump in his throat, "Always makin' me leave home, aren't you."

Raylan laughed a little, eyes stinging, and he reached a hand over the table to take Boyd's, briefly, "I knew I'd do you some good, some day."

"You've done me all the good I've ever got."


	2. Don't Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim takes care of Raylan, even when it costs him a bit more than he'd care to pay.

Raylan wound up staying with Tim the rest of the time he lived in Kentucky. Tim didn't mind, and Raylan couldn't be arsed to find a new motel, not when Tim didn't care and somehow seemed to like having him.  
  
Art watched him carefully, and Raylan knew his days were numbered. "What's eating you, Raylan?" Art asked, resting a leg on Raylan's desk, arms folded and glaring at his deputy and friend, "You haven't asked to go to Harlan in weeks. Your best buddies in the Dixie Mafia go missing, and you don't even go off the reservation."  
  
"Just doin' my job," Raylan muttered, fighting his stapler.  
  
"I can see that," Art said, "I've gotten all your reports. You're working like Nelson."  
  
"Isn't that what you wanted?"  
  
"If I wanted more Nelsons, don't you think I would clone him?"  
  
"Yes," Raylan muttered, "You would, bein' the soulless slave driver you are."  
  
"Oh, slave driver, am I?" Art grinned, amused, before sobering, "Boyd Crowder has left Kentucky. Took Ava with him. That violates her parole."  
  
"Does it?" Raylan said absently, trying to read one of Tim's notes, "Tim, is this for our case, or your case?" He held it up to the glass.  Tim glanced at it, squinted, and rolled closer.  
  
"That's for accounting."  
  
"Trust me on this—type it." Raylan folded it into an airplane and tossed it over the divider.  
  
Art was still on his desk.  
  
"What if I told you you could go after them?" Art said.  
  
Raylan leaned his chair back, looking at him, "I'd go, but it would be a waste of time."  
  
"...did you just say you thought going after Crowder would be a waste of time?" Art reached for his forehead and Raylan batted him away.  
  
"I won't find them, he's too canny and so is she. And I'd think you'd just be happy they're gone and I'm manageable."  
  
"I'm happy they're gone, and your manageability pleases me almost as much as it worries me," Art said, and looked over at Tim, "Tim, if I were to ask you if you knew what was going on at this desk, what would you say?"  
  
Tim looked at Raylan, then at Art, and smiled, the smile he reserved for attorneys and FBI agents, "I have no idea what you're talking about. He's a model coworker. He even," Tim's smile got genuine, "Made coffee this morning."  
  
"Sweet lord, and I drank some," Art moaned, eying Tim—likely, Raylan thought, considering him to be the weaker of the two. "I'll just ask you this. Did either of you kill Wynn Duffy and company?"  
  
"They're dead?" Tim's eyebrows went up, "Is that sweet pimp mobile up for auction?"  
  
"They just found Mike's body, and are working to identify the body found beside him," Art said, "A little hard, with all the teeth bashed out... fingertips cut off—they identified Mike through his tattoos," Art continued, and Raylan looked at his screen, "Some other pretty nasty shit done... no, I guess it's not like you, Raylan, though I know you would have loved to... and Tim here has no reason. Not really. And I like to think I know how Tim would choose to end a body's life. But the timing of your reformation and Boyd leaving..."  
  
Raylan looked at him, "That all?"  
  
Art looked at him steadily, "Raylan." Tim was utterly still in the next cubicle, "I don't think you did it."  
  
"Well, I didn't." Raylan's face was mutinous.  
  
"I do think you know about it."  
  
"I don't know a thing about it, except what you've just told me."  
  
"Do I need to be worried about anything comin' down on us? You were outta the office for four days, Raylan, I checked, and your car never left your motel. And you come in walkin’ like an old man.  Now Tim here says he got a message from you, and you told Rachel you were workin' at your daddies' old place... see my concerns?"  
  
Tim didn't appear to be breathing, and Raylan kept his eyes fixed on Art. He was worried.  
  
Art heaved a sigh, and looked at Tim, "Did he leave you a message tellin' you he'd be off?"  
  
"I told Rachel so," Tim said tightly, "As you're aware."  
  
"That's a non-answer."  
  
"It is the only answer I feel necessary to give."  
  
"There a reason you're grillin' Tim instead of me?"  
  
"Yes. You hate not to be the center of attention. And, I'm willing to bet," Art looked at Raylan, "That you're not willing to let that poor boy's career go to shit just to cover your own ass."  
  
"He doesn't have to," Tim replied, getting up and leaning on the divide, his voice low and soft, and Raylan and Art realized at the same instant that he was angry, not annoyed, peeved, or perturbed, and shared a look, "I am not... we both told you, sir, we ain't done anything wrong. And you can believe us, or not, but I like to think you'd trust us that far. He might play fast and loose, I might have issues, but so help me God, Art, you can't think... I think if you keep it up, I'll stop caring what you think."  
  
He went back to his chair, and Art tilted his head, "My office. Both of you. Now."

Tim got up and stalked into the office, Raylan behind. Art went to his desk, motioning at the door and blinds, as he pulled out the bourbon. Raylan took his, but Tim didn't, settling back with his hands loose and comfortable. Art took a sip from his, eying his deputies.  
  
Raylan looked at Tim out of the corner of his eye, and then at Art. "I didn't call him. I was on a bender."  
  
Art sighed, rubbing his face, "Didn't want to know that."  
  
"You made me tell you. Now, the days have come outta my leave, and while it isn't professional, I did it and I guess I gotta own up to it."  
  
"Surprised you haven't done it yet," Art groaned, "And then you asked Tim to cover?"  
  
"Volunteered," Tim said, reaching for the glass slowly. He took a sip, and Art watched him like a hawk.  
  
"I see. So, Raylan, you were drunk at your motel, passed out, and...."  
  
"Slept through Saturday, thought it was Sunday on Monday," Raylan said and shrugged, "I don't aim to do it again."  
  
"You better not. Shit, you coulda died, Raylan!"  
  
"I know it," Raylan sighed. Art pursed his lips, looking back and forth between them, before leaning back in his chair, looking even crankier than before, if that were possible.  
  
"Do either of you expect me to believe anything except that you didn't call Tim?"  
  
Tim smiled a little, not looking at Raylan, or Art, or anywhere in particular in the room, but smiling as if his teeth hurt.  "Art, can I tell you a story?"  
  
"I'm feeling magnanimous. Go for it."  
  
"Okay. Well. I'm gay—you know that, right?" Art nodded, and Raylan blinked into his bourbon. He hadn't, actually, but... "So, in the military, we have an acronym for just about everything. Like this, ri'here? Us in here, getting chewed out? This is SNAFU."  
  
"I know that one."  
  
"It's pretty common. You familiar with DADT?"

"Don’t ask, don’t tell - I am," Art said, "It's bullshit."  
  
Tim shrugged, "I generally considered most orders generated by not-soldiers to be bullshit but that ain't my point," he said, and his smile turned bitter and cold, "I had an officer, freeeeesh outta officer's training, hated my guts from the moment he met me.  He never stopped with callin' me names, Gutterslut, Guttertrash—there's more, but it isn't worth recallin'. Anyhow, he never would stop asking me, and asking me, over and over and over again." Tim's hand moved in a sharp motion. "Until, one day, I snapped, turned on him, and told the truth."  
  
"You get discharged?" Art asked, frowning. "I thought you timed out."  
  
"No, he laughed and was fine after that. I mean, I got a verbal reprimand for sassin', but I got them every day. Turns out he just thought I wasn't tough enough, and when I bucked up, well, he thought I was blowing smoke. But somebody else heard, and they... knew I was telling the truth. See, he was special, corporal Green was. No idea how he got past psych. Probably lied. You can do that. It's not hard. He was smart. No, what he wanted was someone to hurt, and that someone was me." Tim hesitated. "I was a kid," he said slowly, "Hadn’t made it to Ranger, just started as a soldier, I _knew_ that this was what I wanted, and I was... me. I figured I was done for, him after me, him bein' higher rank than me, longer with all the other guys. But he wasn't telling and I kept my mouth shut." Tim's knee jiggled, a motion utterly foreign to him, and Raylan looked down at his glass and tried to fight the urge to vomit. "But somehow, my Sarge... he caught wind. Sarges always do. I woke up around the time he'd usually... and my Sarge was there, sitting at my feet, cleaning his rifle. He told me to go back to sleep. I said I needed to get some air, and he looked at me and told me I didn't. And he told me again, to get some sleep. I was never alone again, not until I went to Ranger school, and I never went back to my old unit. I was in with those guys two years, Art, and I was never alone more’n five minutes. Now the thing is, none of that would have happened if an officer had just not asked me a question about somethin' that wasn't hurting anybody. If I hadn’t got pushed into saying something I didn’t wanna talk about, but it wasn’t hurting anybody, well, I don’t think I’d’ve gotten raped for three months… Do you understand what DADT means, Art?"  
  
Art looked at Tim, then at Raylan.  
  
Art sighed, looking old, and tired. He looked at Raylan a long time, and nodded, slowly. "All right. I'll trust you two."  
  
"Thanks, Art," Raylan muttered, and Tim nodded, finishing his drink in one go.  
  
"Keep up this model student," Art said and smiled with no happiness, "And you'll wind up back in Miami in no time, Raylan."  
  
"That is my goal."  
  
Art nodded and waved them out. Raylan spent the rest of the day feeling Art's concerned gaze on the back of his neck.  
  
He stopped off to buy booze before he went home. Tim was in the kitchen, wearing worn-out track pants and a T-shirt, his hair wet, "Pizza okay? I was gonna make chicken but we ate all the pasta last week."  
  
"Pizza is fine." Tim looked at him, eyebrow up, and Raylan waved the bottle at him. "But I plan on drinking most of my dinner."  
  
Tim shrugged. "Suit yourself."  
  
"You can't tell me you don't want some."  
  
"Oh, I do," Tim said, "But it's a weeknight, and..."  
  
"What, does little Timmy have to go to school?"  
  
"No, but Ray-Ray needs to be an asshole."

"After today, I figured I'm entitled," Raylan said bitterly, “Wouldn’t you figure?”  
  
"You don't need me to tell you you can drink, Raylan. Drink, or don't. Your choice. Pizza toppings are my choice."  
  
Raylan considered that, and sighed, "Get me one, too."  
  
"Will do," Tim said, "Oh, and there's ice cream."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I bought you ice cream. Figured you were entitled, after the day we've had."  
  
"You could have told Art."  
  
Tim looked insulted, flipping him off with one—then both hands as he tucked the phone under his jaw, and then, concentrating, he put his hands together, middle and ring on his left up and middle on his right behind. "Triple middle," he whispered to Raylan, a grin starting in his eyes.  
  
Raylan laughed and shook his head, pouring them both a reasonable drink as Tim talked to the pizza place.  
  
"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," Raylan said after Tim had eaten half of his pizza and was slowing down. Tim glanced at him—Raylan was still picking at his second slice.  
  
"I didn't, and I don't," Tim said, shrugging, "That wasn't about me. I didn't... think about it, while I was talking. That was about Art. It was information he needed to understand."  
  
"I'm not sure how I feel about it," Raylan muttered, dunking his crust in the cheese sauce, "I don't want your protection."  
  
Tim shrugged again. "Then don't take it. Tell Art."  
  
"Don't want to do that, neither."  
  
"Then don't."  
  
"You're really fuckin' unhelpful, you know that?"  
  
"If I tried to tell you what to do, you'd either do the opposite, try to punch me, or somethin' else stupid. I don't feel like playing that game. I can't control you, and I don't really want to, either."  
  
Raylan glared at him. Tim looked back, unimpressed. "This whole shitpile is stupid. Why..." he trailed off, not certain where even his stupid goddamn question was going.  
  
"Because you were there," Tim said slowly, "And they wanted to hurt someone."  
  
"So shoot me!" Raylan exploded, "Put a gun to my head and pull the goddamn trigger, or blow out my kneecaps or even shove dynamite down my goddamn throat, whatever, why..."  
  
...goddamnit, his face was wet.  
  
Tim looked at him, and Raylan wiped his face angrily, "It'd be so much easier if they'd just..."  
  
"Not been psychopathic pieces of shit?" Tim queried, "Well, yes. But they were."  
  
"I can't bring myself to be mad at Boyd for killin' 'em."  
  
"You know what? Me neither."  
  
"I'm a little surprised by what he did..."  
  
"Are you?" Tim smiled, tilting his head, "I'm not."  
  
"He split Duffy open. With..." Raylan did feel a little sick about that. "He bled out."  
  
"I read the report too," Tim said, taking a slice of pizza from Raylan's pie, passing one of his over.  Raylan accepted it mechanically.  "I'm not surprised."  
  
"It was..."  
  
"He was keeping you safe, as best as he knew how. You think any other shitkicker in Kentucky will dare touch you? I mean, there's the fact you're you, and you're unbribeable, a fast draw, and don't give too many shits. That's the first reason not to fuck with you. Second, there's a crazy hillbilly that'll shove a blunt object up ya and leave you to die."  
  
Raylan considered that. "I doubt anybody even knows?"  
  
God he hoped not.  
  
"My money says Boyd knew he was done when he saw ya and did what he had to do," Tim muttered, "And that message was for Johnny."  
  
Raylan smiled a little. "Yeah... that would be like Boyd."  
  
And, fuck it, why did a criminal protecting him make him feel better? He should be angry, hunting him down, not sitting across from his coworker, grateful and smiling about it.  "I'm a shit Marshal."  
  
"You are, at times," Tim said, thoughtfully, "This ain't one of 'em."  
  
"Bullshit, it ain't. I'm actually glad he done it!"  
  
Tim flinched. "It's normal," Tim said slowly, "I think."  
  
"You're every bit as fucked up," Raylan snapped, "If you think that's normal—how would you know?"  
  
Tim closed the pizza box, getting up to throw it away. His face was tight.  
  
"What did your buddies do to that guy?” There wasn't enough booze in the world for the expression on Tim's face, or the way Raylan's stomach turned, anger burning away and leaving only cowardice.  
  
He wished they'd shot him.  
  
"I told you, I don’t want to talk about it," Tim said quietly.  
  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" Raylan managed.  
  
“You did.” Tim sucked in a breath. "I'm going out for a run. I'll be back. Don't wait up."  
  
"Tim..."  
  
"I have to go," Tim said, his eyes somewhere to the side of Raylan's head, "It's okay. I just have to go."  
  
Raylan didn't try to stop him. He let him go, took care of the pizza boxes, and poured himself a generous glass of bourbon, taking it up to his room. He knocked it back and took off his jeans and shirt, lying down with a book and trying to read.  
  
Tim was gone an hour, and when he came back, Raylan didn't come out of his room. He heard Tim shut himself into his own room, and finally let himself try to sleep.  
  
He woke every half-hour, jolting awake and shivering, pressing his face into his pillow as he told himself he didn't need to check the door.  
  
He reminded himself that he was safe, that he was okay.  
  
He did it anyhow.

He couldn't bring himself to go back to bed, the cold sweat of checking the door still making his feet sticky on Tim's floors. The cat meowed above his head and he jumped.  
  
Fuck.  
  
"Raylan?" Tim's voice was quiet. "That you downstairs?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," he said, heading to where he could see Tim in his bedroom doorway, pistol held loosely at his side. "Just restless."  
  
Tim nodded. "Okay," he said, "Come on." He stepped back into his bedroom.  
  
"What?" Raylan shook his head. "No, I..."  
  
"Hell, no," Tim grumbled from inside his room, "But if you sleep in the same place, you'll have the same dreams, grandma told me.  So go brush your teeth again, and try going to bed in a new bed. Have new…" He yawned. "Dreams."

Raylan glanced at the clock. It read 1:30. The night was salvageable. He brushed his teeth and washed his hands and face, and padded to Tim's bedroom.  
  
Tim was on his stomach on the side of the bed nearest the door, and Raylan realized suddenly that the window was boarded over, not just draped.  
  
He lay down next to him carefully, pulling the blankets over himself and taking a deep breath—he smelled Tim.  
  
He tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, listening to Tim's breathing, evening out his own—he hadn't realized how jagged it was—and slowly, he slipped asleep.  
  
He dreamed of a desert and a sky so blue it hurt.  
  
When Raylan woke up, twenty minutes past six, Tim was on the floor by the bed, fingers curled around his rifle in his sleep. Raylan knew that because his hand had fallen from the edge of the bed and rested lightly over Tim's chest.  
  
Where the hell had the rifle been? Didn't matter, Tim looked comfortable and relaxed—almost sweet.  
  
Raylan got up and headed to get the first shower, for once.  
  
Art left them alone, and Raylan and Tim didn't talk about being glad that their respective psychopaths were dead ever again.  
  
Raylan's transfer took another six months, and when it came, he experienced a moment of self-doubt—could he go back to working fugitives only?  Had they broken the part of him that looked down a barrel and didn't give a shit?  
  
He wondered what it would be like to have a new partner again, not have Tim and his understanding presence—the one time he'd been triggered (and he now fully understood what the fuck that meant) Tim had been his only witness, calming him down and talking him through the panic of being pinned on his belly by a family member of a fugitive. Tim had hauled them off with one hand, pulling his cuffs out and snarling curses, coming back to help Raylan up, squeezing his shoulder and sliding into the driver's seat, even though Raylan had driven there.  
  
What was he gonna do with a partner that didn't...  
  
He was gonna suck it up, he thought, stop bein' a weakling and just keep going. His daddy hadn't raised no pussy, even if he was an idiot, he reminded himself bitterly.  
  
Art took him out for drinks, and Raylan relaxed with his friend as he hadn't since before the shitshow. He kicked himself though, as Art put a hand on his back on the way out and the alcohol had lowered his defenses just enough that he flinched at the touch.  
  
He caught Art's reflection in the glass and saw that he knew. "Gonna say anything?"  
  
"I don't have anything to say. I guess this will just stay one of those things we don't talk about," Art said heavily, "But I want you to know, Raylan, I'm sorry I brought you here."  
  
"I guess I had it coming, shooting Bucks over crab cakes." He'd been thinking on that, wondering what Preacher-Boyd would say.  
  
"Wasn't what I meant, Ray. Not a bit. Since I won't be your chief anymore, I'm happy to tell you I think you were right to do what you did. And a lot of the things you've done here, well, they were right. They just were... difficult as a Marshal and as your boss." Art put a hand on his shoulder, and Raylan let him, keeping his eyes on Art and nowhere else. "I'm sorry not because of what you've done, but because of the shit that's been piled on you. Had I known... I really think I would have tried to get somebody else to take you. But I... selfishly, I admit... wanted you. I like working with you, and I was down a man. You've brought Tim along—hell, even Rachel upped her game. You're leaving us better than you found us, and I feel like we sure as hell haven't done the same by you."  
  
Raylan blinked hard, looking down at his boots. "Thanks, Art."  
  
"Thank you, Raylan. Hey," Art said and grinned suddenly, "When I retire to Florida, wanna come golfing?"  
  
"I hate golf."  
  
"You'll love it."  
  
"Just said I hated it, Art."  
  
"You're doin' it wrong."

*

Raylan lay in bed the last night in Kentucky, blinking at the ceiling.  Three years, give or take, and he was finally going back.  
  
He got up, padding downstairs to where Tim, an echo of his first night there, was playing X-box, Medal of Honor this time.  His eyes flicked to Raylan and he smiled.  Raylan settled onto the couch, putting up his feet.  Tim went back to playing, but like always, he slid one side of his headset off.  
  
Raylan looked at him, and wondered if he'd ever work with him again- hell, if he'd see him.  "Thank you. For the last while.  It's meant a lot, knowin' I could count on you."  
  
Tim glanced at him, his eyes smiling, "You make it easy to care about you. And interesting.  I'll miss you, for sure."  
  
"Hope the new guy gives you less of a time," Raylan said.  
  
"I just hope he can keep up," Tim said, "Do I strike you as a patient man?"  
  
"You do, actually," Raylan said, "But maybe not one who suffers fools." He reached out a hand and squeezed Tim's shoulder, "Sure been nothin' but patient with me, and of all the things I am, a fool is not one of 'em."  
  
"Might have a point," Tim leaned into his hand and Raylan shifted a little to be sitting behind him, knees on either side of his shoulders.  Tim tilted his head back to smile, and Raylan grinned back.  
  
Tim pressed a dry kiss to the inside of Raylan's bare knee, and faced forward again as action on screen picked up.  Raylan figured he'd feel the burn of that for the rest of his life.  
  
"I'll miss this," Raylan admitted, and Tim bumped his knee with his shoulder- enemy forces moving in on his base, and Tim's character was fighting to get to high ground, and surprise surprise, changing to a sniper rifle.  
  
"Me too. But we knew it wasn't forever. Nothin' is. And," Tim groaned as his character's health tanked and he died, "Neither of us is dead.  It's just space and time."  
  
"You're a nerd. A massive, massive, geeky nerd."  
  
"Yep," Tim chuckled, "Sure am."  Raylan rested his hands on Tim's shoulders, and let one hand pet his hair, absently.  
  
Tim didn't object, and it felt good to be close to another person, to touch them.  Raylan hadn't gone so long without touching another person since... probably his divorce.  Even then, he had vague recollections of leggy blonds and bourbon.  
  
It felt good.  
  
With Tim, it felt safe.

Tim leaned into his touch, humming, and Raylan kept petting, noting Tim's hair was softer than he'd expected, but then, he supposed it made sense, all the product he used on it to keep it slicked back, it had to be pretty fine, not coarse and-  
  
His hand snapped back and his stomach dropped, the recollection of dry blond hair, crunchy with decades of dye under his fingers, his hand free for just a moment and frantic-  
  
Pain in his hand, and he looked down at Tim, who had turned himself around, on his knees between Raylan's, and was pinching between his thumb and hand with dull nails and strong fingers, "Try to find the differences between then and now," Tim said, "because there's always, always, always gonna be a way to connect then to now. Stay here. With me. Okay?"  
  
Raylan nodded, slowly, and reached out again, sinking his fingers into Tim's hair and watching as his eyes half-lidded in pleasure, tilting to the side to get more pressure.  He smiled a little, focusing on the soft sound he made, the way the light hit his face, and how his hair was damp and likely smelled of his shampoo.  
  
Finally, his fingers stopped shaking, and Tim hummed, turning back to his game.  Raylan smiled, turning himself to lay on the couch, hand settling over Tim's shoulder.

He left in the morning, a cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich tucked into his hands- the car was already loaded with what little he'd brought to Kentucky, plus a few things he'd picked up there.  
  
"Hey," Tim called from the top step, and Raylan looked back at him.  Tim looked nervous, and Raylan tilted his head, curious, "Drive carefully. Use your road rage, if you have to, okay?"  
  
Raylan laughed, shaking his head and leaving Kentucky with a smile.

 

*

He’d been in Miami for six months when Boyd sat down across from him at a bar and grinned, “Well, howdy there, stranger,” he said, his voice a drawl, “Fancy meetin’ you here.”

“Boyd,” Raylan laughed, reaching to take his hand, like old times, “Can’t imagine somebody I’d be happier to run into.”

“Well, my truck route brought me down to Florida, and I reckoned, what the hell, see if I can find me a cowboy marshal with a taste for bourbon.”

“And here we are.”

“And here we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote, folks! I hope you've enjoyed, and would appreciate a comment left!

**Author's Note:**

> A second chapter will be forthcoming. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!


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